


Fast Train

by VanillaMostly



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Love Triangles, POV Minor Character, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaMostly/pseuds/VanillaMostly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keep on moving on a fast train...</p>
<p>[Four vignettes, based on the feel of the song]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fast Train

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I was listening to Solomon Burke's "Fast Train" and it just made me sad, so out came this. I don't own the song or these characters.

**1**

_**Oh deep down in your heart... do you really know how you feel** _   


“The girl’s sick, Finnick. You won’t bring her back.”

Finnick loves Mags and he knows she’s just looking out for him, so he doesn’t argue. But inside he thinks, _No, you’re wrong. Annie’s coming back, she’s gonna, I’ll be here when she does_ and Mags probably knows what he’s thinking but she loves him too, so she stays silent and the two of them just sit and watch Annie sleep.

 

The worst isn’t when Annie shrieks and clutches her head, rocking herself on her heels. The worst isn’t when she throws her plate of food at the wall, and digs her nails into her skin, drawing blood. The worst isn’t when she falls into her trance and her green eyes are frozen, seeing something Finnick can’t see, he can’t protect her from.

No, the worst is when he wraps her in his arms and says, “Shh, shh, it’s me, Finnick,” but she pushes him away and she’s just scared, scared and confused.

“Who are you?”

He always thinks those three words would hurt less the next time she says them, but they don’t.

 

When she’s back - and she does come back, even if it’s brief, mixing with the times she’s gone, so much that sometimes he can’t tell which stage is truly the “on” and “off” - she doesn’t remember what she said and what she did, but she knows from looking at his face.

He could never hide anything from her, and still can’t.

“I’m sorry,” she says to him, tears brimming over her pretty green eyes.

He kisses her and wishes he can absorb her into every pore of his skin, stitch their hearts together, melt into sea foam and you can never tell them apart. Her lips are salty with her tears, she says, “I’m sorry,” and he wishes she would stop.

 

“I can kill her, you know,” President Snow says, playing with the rose tucked into his breast pocket. “Give the girl the peace she deserves.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, I’m not the one you need to fuck, my beautiful boy.” Snow touches him gently on the cheek; Finnick shoves him away. Snow laughs and moves towards the door. “Poor thing, and your poor Annie. Don’t worry, I won’t kill her. You’re already doing it for me.”

He bows and closes the door behind him.

 

Johanna tells Finnick he’s stupid, selling his body, selling his life for a crazy, broken girl who won’t know the difference if he’s dead or alive. Finnick hits a woman for the first time, hits a _friend_ for the first time.

Johanna just smiles, licking at the blood that comes from her lip. “Good, good. You’re not hopeless, not yet.”

She pours him a drink and draws a mockingjay symbol on the table with the Scotch dripping from her fingertip.

 

The train’s whistling, arriving in a few seconds. He holds onto Annie tight, breathes in the familiar scent of her hair, and doesn’t say _goodbye_ because there is no goodbye. There is never a goodbye with Annie because you see, he’ll always come back to her.

She blinks up at him, her green eyes vague, and he knows she isn’t with him right now but that’s okay, because he knows she’ll always come back to him, too.

She’s his Annie.

 

He doesn’t care what people say. They don’t get it. They don’t get what Annie is to him, what he is to her. Well, he’s going to prove them wrong- _they_ will prove them wrong, that it’s Finnick-and-Annie and nothing will change that.

 

 

**2**

**_And you're all alone, can you really make it on your own_ **

 

She hates him because he hated her first. She hates him because he knows nothing about her - _nothing at all_ \- and he thinks he does, has her all figured out. She hates him because he blames her for things she can’t change or do anything about and how the hell is any of it her fault?

 

“Katniss, remember I love-”

He doesn’t finish saying it, the word gets stuck in his throat and he just makes a choking sound. He doesn’t even fight the Peacekeepers when they shove him to the bench and walk off. Madge suddenly doesn’t know where to look or what to do with her hands; she’s pretty sure she’s not supposed to witness Gale’s almost-confession or emotional turmoil; she prays that he won’t cry. But of course he looks up and meets her eyes and finds his scapegoat, his outlet. “What are _you_ looking at?”

“Gale!” It’s his mother, Mrs. Hawthorne, who comes to Madge’s rescue but Madge stands up and sticks her face close to Gale, not caring that he towers over her. She’s had enough of letting him trample her like a doormat and always taking it like the _nice_ one.

“Look, maybe you forgot but _I’m_ Katniss’s friend too. You’re not the only one who’s suffering here so act like a human being for a change.”

She wants to call him all the bad words she’s heard guys use at school but Prim is right there, so she has to be satisfied with Gale’s stumped look before she turns and leaves, hoping no one can tell how badly she’s shaking.

 

He isn’t the sort to apologize. Madge suspects he doesn’t know how. But when she accidentally stumbles on the stairs at school and her piano sheets go scattering all over the floor, and she’s crouched down on her knees, picking them up, it’s Gale who appears with the last pages of Chopin’s _Nocturne_ , Op. 9, No. 2.

She takes the pages from him and tucks them under her arm, and doesn’t say _thank you._

She does nod, though, and he nods back. It’s their truce.

 

With Katniss gone, she didn’t expect Gale to continue the strawberry deliveries, but he does. He’s actually civilized as he hands her the merchandise and she hands him the money. Two weeks later, he’s even making conversation.

 

The reporters come to town and he’s now Katniss’s _cousin_ , while Peeta gets to make out with Katniss on television. He’s angry but he can’t show it, and besides he’s probably feeling guilty in addition to jealous. It’s not easy being a teenaged boy in love, Madge thinks, so she takes pity on him.

“It’s an act,” she tells him.

“What?”

He looks at her carefully, like he’s kind of suspicious, which makes her roll her eyes but she’s not mad. She can tell mostly he’s just confused that she’s offering this in the first place.

“She’s acting. I’m pretty sure. Call it a woman’s intuition.”

“And you’re the _woman_ expert on love now?”

She makes a rude hand gesture and he actually _laughs_.

 

They won, _two_ of them, it’s not a joke, the announcer has declared it and trumpets are blaring for the end of the show. Shock stills the square for about two seconds, then it erupts. Everyone around Madge leaps to their feet, Prim is crying and laughing at the same time, strangers are hugging each other and clapping each other on the back… The square has gone wild and the Peacekeepers don’t decide to interrupt; Madge even sees the younger one, the red-haired one, smiling along.

Madge is hugging Delly even though Madge has never been much of a hugger, and when the next pair of arms pulls her close she at first thinks it’s someone she doesn’t know.

But then she hears his laugh, rumbling from his chest - she can feel it, pressed against her ear - and hears that voice, sounding happier and lighter than she has ever heard it. “Can you just _see_ Snow’s face right now?”

She looks up to see him grinning from ear to ear, but she doesn’t get to reply or laugh at what he said because he’s letting her go and turning to his Seam friends now.

It doesn’t mean anything, they’re all high from the victory. It doesn’t mean anything.

Her arms still tingle.

 

Katniss comes back and the truth comes out. It’s an act after all, and things go back to normal, or as normal as they can be with the Games hovering behind them. Katniss and Gale start hunting again, Peeta and Katniss don’t talk to each other, Haymitch drinks like there’s no tomorrow. Life goes on.

One thing has changed, though: Gale is nicer to Madge now. By “nice,” she means he doesn’t glare at her like she’s scum off his shoes anymore, and no longer dishes out snide comments on her family or her clothes. He’s practically polite, even gives a tiny nod when he sees her around.

She should be happy, she should be grateful, but she finds that she hates him still. It’s just for different reasons now.

 

She watches him watch Katniss. His gray eyes don’t see anything else.

 

The Third Quarter Quell arrives and Katniss and Peeta are going back to the arena. Madge hates herself because damn it she didn’t mean it - but maybe she did, she _thought_ it - yes, Madge thought to herself sometimes, if Katniss never came back would Gale look at Madge one day the way he looked at Katniss?

Madge is the world’s shittiest friend.

She prays for karma to punish her, not her friends, but karma doesn’t seem to be listening these days.

 

She sees him for the last time (though she doesn’t know it yet), and they’re talking about Katniss, because of course, that’s the common link between them. “I was so stupid,” he says. “Used to get jealous all the time of Mellark, and who the fuck _cares?_ Why didn’t I see that? The important thing is that she comes back, she lives and comes back. He’d better come back too, that guy, and they can marry and have kids and a hundred grandkids and I don’t care. As long as she comes back.”

He picks up a rock and throws it; it disappears into the tree branches, rustling leaves, barely even makes a sound.

“It isn’t fair,” he says bitterly. “Fuck, it should have been _over_ for them.”

Madge just listens, watching him. She’s always watching him, and he doesn’t know.

“It’ll end,” she says finally. “It has to.”

She draws back her arm and throws her rock, too. They watch it soar through the sky, striking against the fence with a dull but satisfying crack.

 

To him she’s the mayor’s daughter, she’s Katniss’s friend, maybe she’s the girl with the morphling, maybe she’s an-okay-kind-of-person. She’ll never know what he really thought of her. But she dreams - just let her dream, okay? That he could have, if things had gone different, loved her too.

 

 

**3**

**_And your lover has gone away, don't it make you feel so sad_ **

  

He tells his son and daughter to make the funeral small. No reporters. But he needn’t have bothered. He’s an old man now, from the age of Rebellion. For these kids, that’s an eon ago. Reporters nowadays have better things to do.

He walks by the memorial after the burial. He looks at the names etched in stone, names that don’t mean anything to his grandchildren, except that some of them are from the stories he reads them at night from a special book.

“Poppy? Where’d Grammy go?”

Peeta looks down at his youngest granddaughter, staring up at him with her large, clear gray eyes. “Somewhere good, Prim,” he tells her. “Somewhere good.”

 

They go home, and his daughter cooks a big dinner, his son puts on music, the little ones run around laughing, and he can almost forget that he’s missing something, but he can’t, not for long.

Because his kids do need to go back to their own homes, go back to work - and he insists on this, reassures them he’ll be fine - and then he’s left in this big house, in the silence, alone.

He makes his way up the stairs, slowly, leaning on his cane, the leg injury from when he was sixteen an ever-present reminder.

The bed has been made, probably by his daughter; pillows fluffed neatly, bedcover smooth and straight. He runs a hand over the side _she_ has always been on, and fancies that she’s in the corner of the room, watching.

He laughs at himself. “No, you wouldn’t, that’s not like you, old girl.”

She might smirk at him for talking to himself like a senile old man, but it wouldn’t be from here. Katniss isn’t the sort to hang around. She’s the sort to keep moving.

 

The days go by slow. He finds that he misses not only Katniss, but misses Haymitch too.

If Haymitch were still here, he’d raise his beer bottle at Peeta from his porch, geese all flapping around him, and say, “Hey there, kiddo. You look like you need a drink.”

And Peeta would laugh but give in eventually, like Haymitch knew from the start, and they’d talk about the old days; Peeta would bring up the many times he’s had to hold Haymitch’s head while he puked, and Haymitch would wager a bet that Peeta can’t outdrink him and...

Damn, does Peeta miss him.

 

His son comes by on a Wednesday, after work, and while they’re sitting out on the porch he says, “Dad, you should sell the house.”

Peeta knows this was coming. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps rocking himself in that nice chair of his.

“The house is too big for you, and this place is deserted, anyhow. You should come and live with Janie and me. The kids would love that.”

Peeta sighs, looks out over at the Victors’ Village. They don’t call it that anymore. Part of it has been scrapped; a while ago there was talk of building a school here, but that went to dust. It _is_ a ghost town now.

_I’m a ghost in a ghost town._ That sounds about right.

“I don’t know, son.”

“Promise you’ll think about it, at least?”

Peeta nods.

 

Little Prim brings him a cat, the fattest cat he’s ever seen. “I named him Fluffball,” she says, depositing the cat on his lap.

He smiles, remembering another cat another Prim once had. Fluffball is a lot nicer, but that might be because he’s so fat he just goes to sleep anywhere.

“Mama doesn’t like Fluffball. He scratched up her curtains. Can I keep him with you, Poppy?”

Peeta laughs. He’s an old cat man. If Katniss could see him now.

 

It’s winter, and his joints ache; they hurt the worst in cold weather. Katniss used to heat up a pan of hot water, add some of her mother’s herbs, for him to soak his foot in by the fireplace while they watched whatever was on television.

“Real or not real?” she’d ask him.

He’d observe the leading actress on screen, pouting her pink lips at the leading male. “Fake. Silicone, definitely.”

“Pervert,” she’d say, and they’d both laugh.

 

One night he awakes, unable to breathe. It feels like something’s clamped on his lungs. He struggles to sit himself up. He pants, wheezing, like he’d run a mile.

_Water_ , he thinks, and gets out of bed. In his haste he knocks his cane over, and forgets that he only has one leg. He sprawls onto the floor rather ungracefully.

Fluffball the cat watches him from the door with his big yellow eyes.

Peeta doesn’t know how he manages it, but he makes it to the phone. “Alright, Dad, we’re coming. Hang in there.”

He leans against the wall, closing his eyes. _Is my time up, old girl?_

He imagines her rolling her eyes. _In your dreams, old boy._

 

He stays at the hospital for a few days. The doctor says he has some fluid in his lungs, but it’s treatable. “Do you live alone, Mr. Mellark?”

“Yes, my wife… she passed last year.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor says. To Peeta’s surprise he adds, “The Mockingjay was really something. You too, Mr. Mellark. Thank you for all you’ve done for us.”

He shakes Peeta’s hand solemnly before he goes.

 

Peeta asks his son to drive him back to the house one last time. His son complies, and waits in the car, the radio on.

Peeta hobbles up the porch steps; the door was left open. Some debris and dead leaves have blown into the foyer.

He drinks in the quiet, a familiar silence. He walks through the foyer to the empty living room, gives the fireplace mantel a pat. He walks through the kitchen, the tiles creaking beneath his shoes. He takes the stairs, one step at a time. Looks into the bedroom; the bed they’d shared is gone, but he thinks he can still smell her in the air.

“This is goodbye, girl on fire,” he says to the room.

There is no answer. He smiles anyway as he closes the door.

 

 

**4**

**_Oh, going nowhere, how long can it last?_ **

 

“This is my brother,” she tells the teachers at school. “My brother Peeta,” she says to the owner of the toy store, or the butcher waving from his shop.

“Delly, I’m _not_ , though,” Peeta whispers to her.

“You are,” she says stubbornly.

 

She loves that they look like they _could_ be brother and sister. They’re exactly the same height. She’s pudgier and more freckly, which she doesn’t like so much, but they have the same blue eyes and wavy blond hair. Even their hair is the same length; she got her mother to cut it short like his.

 

She doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t look at her. “But how? How?”

“I fell,” he mumbles.

She doesn’t buy it for a second. Peeta isn’t as clumsy as her. He’s good at sports, too. He’s little but he kicks the ball far. Even the older kids pick him for their teams.

But she can’t get the real answer out of him, and he looks like he’s about to cry, holding his arm with the big ugly bruise on it, so she drags him to her house and digs in the fridge for a pack of ice. It’s what her mother does for her when she comes home hurt from playing with the boys.

“There, it’ll be okay,” she says, pressing the ice on his arm. When her mother tells her that, it always makes Delly feel better. Peeta smiles a little, so she thinks it worked.

 

Delly hears the shouting. She sits up, frowning, but Peeta doesn’t even look up. He just keeps on coloring his drawing.

“Do you hear that, Peeta?”

She’s wondering if it’s the television.

“That’s just them. It’s okay, they won’t bother us,” says Peeta.

“Who’s _they?_ ”

Peeta switches to a blue crayon. “My mom and dad.”

Delly is shocked. Her parents get testy with each other, her mother even smacks her father on the shoulder when she’s annoyed, but they’ve never shouted like _that._

“They sound… angry,” Delly whispers.

Peeta just shrugs. Delly gets the feeling that this is not something he wants to talk about.

 

“Who’s that you’re drawing?”

Peeta shuts his sketchbook so fast he crushed his finger and yelps. “Delly! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Let me see,” she demands, reaching around for it, but Peeta ducks and shoves the book into his backpack.

“You let me see all the other stuff you draw,” Delly says. “C’mon, I’m not gonna make fun. I think you’re really good.”

Usually that’s enough to make a smile creep onto Peeta’s face and for him to show it to her, but this time he shakes his head vehemently, clutching the bag to him like it’s his lifeline.

“Fine,” says Delly with a huff. She changes the subject, and doesn’t bother telling Peeta that she already saw most of the drawing. It’s a dark-haired girl with a braid, wearing angel wings.

 

She’s in fourth grade, and the girls in class are giggling when the teacher’s not looking. Delly leans over and catches some of their talk. They’re discussing boys and kissing and _marriage_ , of all things.

One of the girls sees Delly eavesdropping and her eyes light up like Christmas came early. “What about _you_ , Delly?”

“What about me?”

“Are you going to marry Peeta Mellark?”

The other girls giggle behind their textbooks, which they’re using as shields against the teacher.

_Peeta’s my brother_ , Delly almost says. But she’s older now and has stopped saying that for years.

“Maybe,” she says instead, and the girls go _oohhhh_ and the teacher swoops down on them and the topic is forgotten for that day.

 

Yes, why not? She’ll marry Peeta when she grows up. She’ll take care of him and she won’t ever shout at him and she’ll certainly make sure he never gets any more bruises on him.

 

Delly is thirteen and she wishes for the growth spurt that Peeta got. He’s taller than her - not that this is particularly a feat - and he’s gotten wider in the shoulder and chest. He’s lost all his baby fat, while Delly still has chipmunk cheeks.

“I think you’re pretty,” Peeta tells her when she complains about this.

It takes her a moment too long to retort back, “Well, you only say that ‘cause you’re my friend.”

He laughs and Delly is glad she grew out her hair. It’s long enough to cover her red-hot face.

 

Their friends dare Peeta to kiss Delly when they’re at someone’s birthday party. “Shut up,” says Peeta, but because they’re sorely outnumbered, he and Delly get pushed into the closet.

Peeta stares at his feet. Delly bites her lip and twists the skirt of her yellow daisy sundress in her hands.

“Here, Peeta,” she says at last. “Close your eyes.”

He just looks at her and sighs, and obeys.

She leans over and pecks him briefly on the cheek. Then she opens the door and hollers, “Peeta, gross! You didn’t have to use tongue!”

After they leave the party and walk home together, he glances at her and says, “Thanks.”

She shrugs.

 

It’d be easier, she thinks, if Katniss Everdeen isn’t such a cool person, so _good_ and beautiful and perfect. And Peeta deserves nothing short of perfect.

 

Years go by and Delly is twenty-eight now, standing with her friend. She’s crying and Peeta laughs at her. “The toasting hasn’t even started yet,” he says, teasing.

She wipes her tears with the back of her hand. “I know, idiot.”

She can’t stop crying though, and Peeta steps closer and puts an arm around her, resting his chin on top of her head. He kisses her hair.

“I love you, Delly,” he says.

She pulls away slightly and looks at him, looks at her Peeta. He’s so handsome in his suit, hair combed out, falling into his eyes. She thinks of all the things he’s been through, all the odds he has beaten, all that he has lost, to get to here.

In a few minutes her best friend will have his dream come true. He’ll finally get his dark-haired angel.

“I love you, too,” she tells him.

 

She’ll have her own husband and her own family and she’ll forget about him (and it’s true, she does). Her children will call him Uncle Peeta and his children will call her Aunt Delly. It’s like she said when she was little. He’s her brother. He’ll always be more than that to her, though... but that’s her secret to keep.

 


End file.
